To go unnoticed through the village is not fair; I have to stop and walk and greet and ask assent.
Become a person for their looking eyes, for surely I have lost?
If not my way, then mind.

The mother and the son they smile, then place their cooler basin back upon their heads. I stay and suck the frozen ginger ball of ice, still looking for a place to make my bed.

The teacher brings me through his family, woods and down to riverside.
“What does she want?”
The boys spill water on their t-shirts, shorts; heave yellow gallons flash their teeth in setting sun.
“Here is good?” the teacher asks.
“It’s good,” I say and glance amid cacao trees for space to pitch a tent.

Then slowly night will fall and eyes will leave,
as well the laughter greetings splashings on the beach.
I’m left alone to sit, as on a windowsill
with moon, the running river, sky, in silver speech.

With loving breath I blow into the embers;
the stubborn sticks of humid wood to heat my cup.
Loving, because patience is my way to practice love.
Patience, because I am stubborn, too.

The bitter smoke draws trails of tears along my cheeks and dripping hair draws trails along my back:
the white, illuminated bridge reflecting moonlight.
Reflecting, like: the rock the water stream and arms of fallen trees,
the frogs beneath all heard not seen,
one drilling just beside
my pushing breath.

My stubborn fire, lukewarm tea, the lapa falls,
a monkey body shining in the light.
And nobody is placing any orders;
just me, my river, moon, my skin, the night.

…

(This story told in pictures.)